


in which virgil stumbles into a new family

by whimsicaltwine



Series: an au where everyone lives in a weird and possibly magic mansion [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders-centric, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:33:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21564580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicaltwine/pseuds/whimsicaltwine
Summary: Virgil best friend, Patton, is weird.  Even though they only had a few months to get to know each other, he knows that much; Patton doesn't own a phone, wears dresses without a hint of anxiety, walks literally everywhere he goes, and doesn't contact him for a year before sending an invitation to stay at his house in the middle of nowhere.  In a move worthy of a dumb horror movie protagonist, Virgil accepts.Featuring lots of elaborate clothing, a chicken, and of course, a good bit of anxiety.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil & Creativity | Roman & Logic | Logan & Morality | Patton, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders
Series: an au where everyone lives in a weird and possibly magic mansion [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1588888
Comments: 16
Kudos: 109





	in which virgil stumbles into a new family

The card is a delicate thing, a neat rectangle of tinted cardstock paper with an indented border running around the outside as if it’d sunk down into the paper. Two of the corners are home to an elegant little swirl that frames the message, which is perfectly centered on the card in graceful, looping handwriting, the kind of script that is either carefully constructed with slow, precise pen strokes that each have thought put behind them, or is scrawled out effortlessly and swiftly with a hand that glides and sweeps across the paper. As Virgil stands there in the dull winter light that makes its way through the window, he traces the border with one finger, his chipped nail polish unkempt and unruly against the neat, yellowish paper.

_Virgil,_  
It is with pleasure that we invite you to Dradwith manor on the twenty-first of November. You are welcome to stay as long as you like.  
~Patton Devoue 

Patton, Virgil thinks, is the only person he’s ever met that managed to be really, genuinely, _good._ Even though it’s been nearly a year since he saw him last, Virgil can still picture him in his mind; it’s not particularly hard. Patton is, well, memorable.

Virgil has always been strange. You wouldn’t know it by looking at him; the world is a minefield of people, each armed with judgement, and so he does his best to be unassuming when he ventures into it. His favorite sweatshirt, his knee-high boots with the zippers and straps that jangle as he walks, his darker and more dramatic eyeshadow, his pet tarantula, the way he jumps around and dances when cooking to the backdrop of his favorite music, they all stay locked up at home, traded for nondescript jeans, a basic hoodie, and a way of existing that lets him get lost in the crowd, overlooked in favor of the people who let themselves be loud. He likes it that way. The less people notice him, the less they judge him. 

Patton is not like that. Patton, he remembers, a fond smile sneaking its way onto his face, is the person that wears a lace shawl to the library. Patton is the breeze on a brisk spring day, he’s the feeling of curling up next to a fireplace to watch YouTube videos, he’s bright colors and round, golden glasses and the unabashed desire to just _exist_ and have a great time doing it. While Virgil hides, Patton embraces the world with a smile, leaving Virgil to watch him from the sidelines, wishing he had the courage to take everything that makes him _Virgil_ and set it up in an art gallery for everyone to see.

And so rather than setting the envelope on the kitchen counter and letting the impending decision ricochet around in his brain until he inevitably stresses himself into not responding and missing the opportunity entirely, Virgil tears a paper from his sketchbook, snatches up a pen, and writes back. His hasty print looks stupid next to the elegant handwriting on Patton’s card. After a moment, he erases it and tries again, forming the letters slowly this time. It’s still pathetic, really, but better — good enough that he can bring himself to fold it and shove it in an envelope before he starts to have second thoughts. Hopefully, by the time he falls apart out of anxiety, the letter will be gone.

Glancing towards the clock, he steps into his little kitchen, where everything is dark save for the clocks on the microwave and stove, which cast little spheres of green light over the countertop and all the piles of clutter that populate it. Between the stacks of paper, there’s just enough space to make himself dinner. Before he gets to work, however, he pulls his phone out of his hoodie pocket. Its bright light is harsh against his eyes, which are adjusted to the dark, and so he blinks frantically while he taps his way to his schedule by memory as smoothly as a practiced athlete plays their sport. “November 21st,” he mumbles as he types, “Patton.”

xxxxxx

It’s an early spring day, the kind where the ground is wet from snowmelt and the brisk energy of warmer weather sweeps through the world, nudging plants and animals on their way, prompting trees to bud and birds to sing. It’s the kind of day that feels fresh, like the world has been rinsed off and set out to dry, like there’s something new there, something different. As Virgil walks down the street, listening to his shoes scuff against the sidewalk, he can’t help but relax his shoulders just a little, let his movement come more casually, even though he knows the atmosphere is nothing but an illusion painted by whatever instinct calls things to wake up after wintertime. At least it’s enough that he can push away the haunting dread of meeting his new coworker. Best to procrastinate all those what-ifs for later, when they can fall on him like an avalanche.

The bells above the bookstore door chime as he pushes it open, their little tone bright as if they, too, are effected by the weather. As he walks back to the counter, Virgil takes a moment to look around. It seems Emile has redecorated. 

The inside of the store is painted in tones of oak and mahogany and pine, a veritable cave of wood that creaks and groans as you walk across the floor, that gathers dust like it’s trying to set a record, that encloses the space in a curving map of trim that runs along all its corners and smooths the transitions between walls. While that always stays the same, not much else does; the owner, Emile, has a penchant for decorating it for different holidays, or sometimes just because he feels like it. Last spring, he’d enlisted Virgil’s help to piece together a life-size paper mache tree in the corner of the children’s section, where its twisting branches sheltered all the miniature chairs and tables clustered together there. Taking it down five months later felt like a betrayal of his former self, who’d spent hours getting scratched by wire and covered in glue.

Today, the deep pink curtains that ruled the windows in the wintertime have been traded for checkered green ones that alight over each glass pane, swaying in the breeze that sneaks in from outside. Matching green streamers twist and swoop their way down from the ceiling, forming an intricate canopy over Virgil as he walks back to the counter, fidgeting with the ends of his baggy sleeves.

“—and this is almost always a sci-fi and fantasy display. Whether it’s like Star Wars’ cartoon spin off, The Clone Wars, or The Dragon Prince, you can find it here,” Emile is saying, his voice drifting over the bookshelves to reach Virgil’s ears. “If you have a favorite, be sure to put it up so people can see it! The things we like say a lot about us as people, you know, and art deserves to be shared and experienced, if the artist chooses to share it!”

“Oh, I know!” The voice that responds is chipper, and has a sort of bounciness to it, like it’s bobbing on a little rushing stream. “I have a friend who creates such wonderful, well, everythings! He can’t get his hands on enough types of art.” Emile chuckles.

“Sounds like an interesting person! Come on back to the counter, and I’ll introduce you to Virgil.” Tugging on the strings of his hoodie, Virgil straightens up, his eyes darting from shelf to shelf, unsure of which one they’ll come from. 

The man that steps out from behind the biographies is quite possibly the strangest person Virgil has laid eyes on. His baby-blue dress shirt, a soft, pale thing that hangs on him like it’s made of thick and heavy fabric, gathers and releases smooth patches of light and shadow as it shifts with his movement, a graceful partner to his mustard-colored pants and Birkenstocks that would make a vsco girl proud—wait.

“Socks and sandals?” Virgil says on reflex, and then immediately feels something heavy and hollow gather in his chest, pulling a sense of dread with it as the weight of it registers with him. _You fucked up you fucked up Virgil you’re an idiot now he’s going to hate you and every day at work will be miserable and he’ll tell everyone about how you’re such a jerk stupid stupid stupid—_

“Well yeah,” the man says, his blinding smile still there as he rocks back on his heels, “It’s too cold to not be wearing socks.” The hollow feeling is still firmly lodged in Virgil’s chest, transforming it into a cave that still echos with _stupid stupid why would you say that_ , but he’s able to shove it into the back of his mind for him to drown in later and listen as the man gives his name. “I’m Patton.”

“Virgil,” he manages, and Patton’s grin somehow grows wider. Light from the windows creeps over to rest on the edge of his round golden glasses, a sharp little shine that wavers and winks, tracing a path around the frames, which stand out against his warm, dark skin.

“Hi Virgil,” Patton says. “I can tell we’re going to get along just fine.”

xxxxxx

The gravel road crunches and pops under the wheels of Virgil’s car as he glares at his phone, tapping his fingers rapidly against the steering wheel like he’ll die if he stops doing it. He lost cell service about fifteen minutes ago, leaving him stranded in the cold, empty void that is the American midwest with only the company of the music that spills quietly from his speakers, which pools on the floor of the car with the comforting familiarity of a soft blanket, and his pet tarantula, Carmella, who is enjoying the ride from a plastic carrier that is propped up in the passenger’s seat.

Virgil, on the other hand, is not enjoying this ride. He’s lost in the middle of nowhere on a suspicious gravel road on his way to talk to his best friend for the first time in more than a year, and to top it off, he decided to abandon his normal clothes for the ones he really likes, the ones that make him feel cool; with ripped black jeans, his handmade hoodie, and boots covered in enough zippers and buckles to warrant questioning his sanity, he looks like an absolute idiot. 

The thing is, Patton never minded looking like an idiot, and so maybe it’ll be okay. Maybe. Probably not. But god, Virgil misses him, misses his dumb puns, misses the way he can fill a room with his presence until all the things Virgil has to worry about getting done get pushed away, if only for a moment. Patton doesn’t own a phone. If Virgil wants to talk to him again, he needs to make it to the address on the card that rests in the passenger’s seat with Carmella, and so he presses on, taps his fingers against the steering wheel, listens to the way the sound of gravel under tires mixes with his music, and tries to take deep breaths to soothe the constant buzzing in his mind.

It doesn’t help that the house he finally spots after turning a corner looks like something straight out of a horror movie.

An architectural nightmare of a thing, the dark building stands dominant in the flat landscape, a mess of gothic arches, worn-down shingled roofs, heavy stone and gables and stained glass and Greek pillars and balconies and art deco porch railings all held together by ivy that twists and creeps up the walls, clinging and crawling, cloaking the building with leaves in some places while tracing webs of narrow curving lines over others. Parts of the building stick out at frightening angles, as if they’re peeling away from the main structure in a futile effort to escape. While the house is immediately surrounded by a dry, brown field draped over the ground like a blanket, behind it Virgil can see a forested area that forms a wide semi-circle around it, as if the trees are afraid to get too close.

Parking his car on the edge of the field, Virgil closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. It’s just Patton. Everything will be okay. 

The car door closes with a dull thunk, and his footsteps kick up gravel as he circles around to the passenger’s side, scooping up his backpack and swinging it onto one shoulder before gently picking up Carmella’s little plastic carrier, which he holds right in the center of his chest, one hand on the handle and one hand underneath, supporting it just in case. As he treks across the field, his boots clink and jangle, the only sound in a dimmed, silent winter world where the cold just barley bites through his hoodie. 

The closer he gets to the house, the more foreboding it looks. From far away, it’s an odd, interesting thing that tugs at some part of your brain, urging you to look closer and investigate, but from the ground just before the front steps it looms over Virgil, dark and heavy, weighing on his shoulders. The gray stone steps droop, sunken in the middle after being worn down by years and years of people climbing them, and as Virgil adds his footsteps to their ranks, the roof over the porch creeps up on him, its shadow faint in the even, dispersed light from the drab, cloudy sky.

The porch is an ancient-looking thing, all stone and pillars and intricate carvings. A chain of tiny stenciled-in flowers winds its way along the railings before wandering down to the floor, where it traces the edges of the space in an indecisive string of nonsensical twists and turns. 

He should get inside. Virgil finds himself wishing he’d had the foresight to put up his hood to keep the chill from his ears. Carmella shouldn’t be out in this weather for too long, either, and so he reaches out towards the dark, paneled wood door, which has a legitimate metal knocker. Smirking, Virgil lifts it, his pale hand a sharp contrast against the cold, dark metal, and hits the door, once, twice. What can he say; he’s always been a slave to the aesthetic.

Still lost in thought, Virgil jumps when the door opens with a quick, smooth movement, all that heavy wood swinging in to reveal a man who is most definitely not Patton. He holds himself a bit like Patton does: open, relaxed, and light on his feet like all the energy he has starts to lift him up off the ground just a bit, but this man has smooth, curly black hair that is swept up off his forehead and pushed over to the side, bronze skin, and a smile with just a hint of mischief tugging at the edges. “You must be Virgil!” he booms, taking a sweeping step back from the door.

After waiting there until Virgil crosses the threshold, he closes the door and briefly bows. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Virgil. Patton has talked about you quite a bit, you know, and with each story I’ve grown more exited to meet you myself. Come this way, I’ll show you to your room. Patton went out to get Bean, but until he’s done, you’ll be blessed with the pleasure of the company of yours truly, Roman!” he says, tossing his head back and throwing an arm into the air with untethered energy, but the grace of a dancer, his fingers artfully twisted around the empty air. 

Shifting on his feet, Virgil follows him through the hallway, too bewildered to study his surroundings as he goes. If there’s anything that helps assuage the fear of standing out too much, it’s someone that stands out even more, and Roman sure fills the role; from his loud voice to his broad gestures to the way he’s dressed, in a neatly trimmed silky red vest embellished with a pattern of black flowers that run all up and down the length of it, everything about him is decidedly not normal. Light slips and slinks over Roman’s vest as he walks, letting loose a constant chain of words as he goes.

The inside of the house isn’t as much of a spectacle as the outside, but it’s still nothing you would consider average. Each doorway is lined with wooden trim that shines in the light, smooth and glossy, and even here, things don’t quite match. Oriental rugs cover the floors in some of the rooms they pass, while others have old, scuffed-up hardwood on display, and Virgil’s able to spot at least three different kinds of trim around the doors as they walk. It’s definitely not like anything he’s seen before. 

Passing through one final doorway, they walk into a big, cavernous room, one with an empty floor and a ceiling that hangs so high above them that it feels like they’re in a ballroom from a fairytale, the kind with a chandelier that sparkles and glimmers. There’s no chandelier here, but there is a grand staircase that unfolds along the wall. A wide, sweeping thing equipped with a sturdy yet elegant handrail that curls outwards at the end before cutting off with an elegant little twist back into itself, the staircase is made of smooth wood that’s been polished so that it gleams. “Now just up the stairs,” Roman is saying, “and it’ll be the second room to the right. I’ll go fetch Patton for you.” With a roguish smile, he sweeps off down the hallway, humming to himself as he goes. Virgil shifts his backpack.

It feels like he’s walked into a book he read as a kid, where extraordinary things happen to ordinary, boring people like Virgil. He used to imagine being the magical chosen one and getting to flee his world of mundanity for one of magic, mystery, and wonder, where everything that made him weird in the normal world made him just _fit_ in the other one, and that he could snap in just like a puzzle piece, blending into the picture so perfectly that you have to really look to see him. But he’s older now. The last bits of his fantasies of escaping to another world dissolved when he was a teenager, leaving Virgil off balance in this strange house in the middle of nowhere that practically _begs_ secrets to hide under the floorboards and fairies to take up residence in the walls.

The stairs creak and groan under his footsteps. Now that Roman’s gone, Virgil can get lost among the intricate network of rooms, or wander somewhere he’s not supposed to be, or offend another roommate he doesn’t know about, and so he repeats Roman’s directions like a mantra in his head. _Second room to the right, second room to the right, second room to the right._ The words follow him all the way up the stairs and to the doorway of the room he’s been given. To what he _thinks_ is the room he’s been given, anyway. What if Roman said it was to the left? What if he meant to say left, but accidentally said right instead? What if Vigil sets all his stuff up in one room only to find out it was the wrong one and have to move? Paralyzed, Virgil freezes in front of the door. He reaches out one hand, as if to open it, and then stops again, lowers it back to his side, shifts his weight from foot to foot. It’s just a door. He’s being stupid.

Suddenly, there’s a noise from behind him. Virgil whips around, startled, to find yet another unfamiliar person there, this one with his gaze fixed on a book as he closes the creaky door behind him with the automatic sort of motion Virgil knows all too well after spending years wandering around while scrolling through his phone. He must catch a glimpse of Virgil, because he suddenly stops in his tracks, spends a moment standing there looking like he’s walked into a room and forgotten what he’d planned on doing there, and then backs up, briskly saving his place with a bookmark before closing the book with a soft clap. He looks up at Virgil.

While Roman had been dressed in red, this man wears navy blue. His crisp button up shirt is plain, save for white stitching that forms neat little looping lines on the cuffs, the edge of the collar, and the top of the pocket, and his square glasses match the black of his tie. Virgil half expects him to order him to get out of his house, but instead, his eyes widen and he takes a quick few steps forward. “What species is it?”

Virgil blinks. “Huh?”

“Your spider,” he says, adjusting his glasses, “what species is it?”

Taking a small, shuffling step back and clutching Carmella’s carrier closer to his chest, Virgil stutters a bit before managing to speak. “Uh, she’s, uh, a rose hair tarantula.”

“Grammostola rosea,” Logan notes, nodding as he steps back. “Deposit your things in your room and then I’ll show you to my study. Bring the tarantula with you, of course.”

“Um, ok,” Virgil says, slow and hesitant, like the words are unfolding from his mouth. Opening the door, he throws in his backpack behind it. “Aren’t you gonna, like, tell me who you are?”

Blinking, as if he hadn’t even considered it, the man gives his head a small shake, recalibrating himself. “It seems I forget myself. I am Logan Sidereus, although you are welcome to simply call me Logan,” he says, turning on his heel and setting off down the hallway at a brisk pace. “You are Patton’s friend, Virgil, if I am correct.”

“Yeah,” Virgil says, almost jogging to keep up with Logan’s long, fast strides. As they continue on, Logan ducks through a room covered in paint-splattered tan cloth and into an odd little space too wide to be a hallway or closet but too small to be a room. To the right, three big windows that stretch from the height of Virgil’s knees to above his head dominate the wall, filtering the outside world through a lattice of precisely cut diamonds in light greens and blues and browns and pinks, each seemingly randomly arranged into a colorful mosaic. The only consistency is that there are never two tiles of the same color right next to each other. When the weather is nicer, they must freeze sunbeams into crystallized rays that each streak through the air to cast an array of tinted light on the floor. Right now, they are simply dark.

Logan strides on across the room to a tangle of metal Virgil can’t make sense of right away, but when Logan takes a step down, it clicks into place; it’s a spiral staircase. Each step is an intertwining network of cast metal that takes the shape of swooping, curling designs, jubilant little curving things that are almost flowers, but not quite, and as they descend, Virgil finds himself trailing his hand over the railing and stepping carefully on each narrow little triangle. By the time he makes it to the bottom, Logan is waiting for him. He’s probably getting impatient. Way to make a first impression, Virgil.

The room they’ve arrived in is cluttered and neat all at once. Bookshelves line the walls, most of them imposing things that stretch from floor to ceiling, dense and constricting like an enormous snake made of tightly packed literature and jars and all sorts of instruments and fiddly little objects; a newton’s cradle sits next to an origami crane, while across the room a weathered globe rests atop a lower shelf set right next to a door lined with all sorts of charts and diagrams hanging from the wall like leaves from a tree, some printed on pristine, crisp paper while others are crinkled and worn. One corner is home to a desk with a simple wooden chair, on which hangs a coat. Before either of them can do anything, a black cat hops down from a shelf to slink around Logan’s legs, slipping and winding their way around his feet as walks across to a terrarium wedged onto a shelf. “You may put her in here,” he says, taking off the top, “until we find something more suitable to be transported up to your room.” 

After carefully scooping Carmella up, giving her a few gentle pets, and gently setting her in her new temporary home, Virgil closes his own container with a click and takes a step back, only to be greeted with a vicious hiss as his foot comes in contact with something small and lithe and definitely not there before. 

He’s just met this man, and he’s already going fall over and break something, one part of his brain worries. The other, more vocal part, directs him to swear as his feet rush to put a stop to any disaster before it even happens. Virgil recovers.

“Pythagoras!” Logan scolds. Virgil’s heart beats rapidly as he clutches his empty carrier, adrenaline stretching every muscle in his body taught and raising his shoulders up to his ears. But.

He named his cat Pythagoras?

Before Virgil can even begin to react, Logan is speaking again. “I apologize for him,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “He has a tendency to get underfoot at the most inopportune moments. I can guide you to the parlor so that we might wait for Patton, if you would find that agreeable.”

“Sure,” Virgil manages, still a little shaken up. As Logan silently leads him back through the house, he starts to think.

Everything about this place and the people in it is stately, elegant. From Roman’s intricate vest to the grand, sweeping staircase to Logan’s dense study, every detail stacks up to make a perfect picture worthy of hanging in an art museum, and here Virgil is, looking like an emo scarecrow in his ripped-up jeans and patchwork hoodie with its unruly stitching. Logan and Roman are probably barley managing not to laugh at him. Hell, Logan could be struggling to suppress a snicker right now. And what will Patton think of him? As he wanders into the parlor behind Logan, who immediately pulls out a book and settles down on a couch, Virgil is buzzing with nervous energy, his fingers peeking out of his sleeves to worry at the hem of his hoodie.

Before the silence can get too awkward, however, a thunderstorm of footsteps sound from down the hall. “Ah,” Logan blandly notes, “Roman and Patton are here.”

Roman enters first, but as soon as he gets through the door he hits a small rug and careens forward, sliding halfway across the room before finally falling with a heavy thud that makes Virgil wince in sympathy. Logan doesn’t even look up from his book.

Virgil can’t help but snicker. “You okay there, princey?” he snarks, raising an eyebrow in amusement as Roman scrambles back up onto his feet, the displaced rug forgotten in his haste.

“Announcing,” Roman booms with an air of importance that is completely ruined by the way he’s rubbing his bruised elbow, “baker, wonderful friend, and optimist extroidanaire, Patton Devoue!”

A lopsided smile creeps onto Virgil’s face as he turns to see his friend for the first time in more than a year. Even here, Patton stands out; his glasses catch the light and his fluffy cloud of dark hair surrounds his head like a halo as he giggles at Roman’s antics, but most shockingly, he has a chicken tucked under one arm. Their feathers are black like ink, glossy and orderly. 

When Patton sees Virgil, his eyes light up, a swift little sparkle taking up residence in each one like a switch has been flipped, and he shrieks wordlessly as he sets the chicken down before barreling at Virgil, his arms wide open, his blue velvet dress swishing around his legs. “Oh,” he exclaims, “I haven’t seen you in _forever!_ How was the drive? Is Emile doing okay? I was going to make cookies for you, but then I thought we should make them together, so we could eat them while they’re still warm.” Struggling to see behind his armful of Patton, Virgil chuckles.

Eventually Patton does step away. Across the room, Roman is grinning at them, while Logan is once again buried in his book, his legs crossed over each other and his spine twisting awkwardly as he reads with intent focus. Patton’s blinding smile is more than enough to make up for the cloudy sky as he looks Virgil over, his eyes sweeping from his floppy hair to his hoodie to his boots. “You look so _cool,_ Virgil,” he says, and means it, because that’s just the way Patton is. “I like the boots. They match your music.”

“Lies and slander!” Roman proclaims, leaning on the couch just behind Logan’s shoulders. “The boots are wonderful, of course, but that jacket! Ah,” he says, practically swooning, “I’ve never seen anything like it before! If I were given all time and money in the world to scour the globe, I don’t think I’d ever find its equal.”

“Well, uh, yeah,” Virgil says, shifting on his feet. “I made it, so—“

“You _made it?”_ shrieks Roman, to which Patton waves him off, chuckling, as he turns back to Virgil.

He’s almost forgotten how much he missed Patton. Without him there to bring him breakfast and coo over ducklings and accidentally cause the infamous Great Glitter Incident, life has gotten a little boring and a lot lonely, like the world is dissolving at the edges and taking Virgil with it. Being his best friend kinda comes with being his only friend, Virgil muses as Patton takes his hands, that spark in his eyes twinkling as he smiles at Virgil, smiles like everything is finally as it’s meant to be. “So how long do you think you’ll be staying?”

“Actually,” Virgil finds himself saying, “I’m not quite sure.” Something tells him he’s going to end up staying here for much longer than a weekend. It probably has something to do with the little feeling that, deep in his chest, underneath layers of skin and blood and muscle, something has shifted and snapped into place like the last piece of a puzzle, or that final bit of information that makes a math problem actually make sense. He’s stumbled into something special.

The chicken pecks at his shoes, curious. “That’s Bean,” Patton says, scooping her up. “She likes you.” Virgil snorts, because Bean is a chicken, and taking an interest in his shoes is hardly a sign of affection, but he nods.

“Yeah.”

Behind them, Roman and Logan have started bickering. “So,” Patton says, “how about we grab those two and get to making those cookies?” He bounces on his toes, eager.

“Yeah,” Virgil says, ducking his head and smiling to himself, running his fingers over the stitches on his hoodie, the one that makes him feel like — well, like _Virgil_. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: Patton's last name is French for "loyal" while Logan's is Latin and means "belonging to the stars," or simply "starry."


End file.
